


A Breath at the Crossroads

by Swagreus (shiplizard)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Genji Shimada, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Casual Hanzo Shimada, Ensemble of three, M/M, Magical Realism, Multi, Post-fall Jesse McCree, Scion Hanzo Shimada, Shit gets deeply confusing, Time Travel Shenanigans, Too Many Cooks AU, Young Genji Shimada, liminal spaces, suicidal character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 20:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14292858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/Swagreus
Summary: Those who belong to the crossroads have a unique gift-- they're never short on time when it matters. They can find their way back to the place between seconds and the space between choices and have a second to breathe.But with the gift comes the duty; they've got to guide other poor bastards there, too, bring the ghosts of past and future in so that others have a second to breathe and the advice they need.All of this is lost on a very hungover, very self-loathing Hanzo Shimada, who just wants all the cowboys and omnics and ghosts to go away. But this angry cowboy is his guide, and his brother is his council, and he's got a choice to make about just what being the Scion of the Shimada family means.





	A Breath at the Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bluandorange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluandorange/gifts).



> Yeah, one of those fics where each of the OW skins is a different character. This is pretty niche; you either really, really want to read about Present!Genji protecting Scion!Hanzo from Blackwatch!Genji, or you really don't. No shame in bailing, bud. 
> 
> If this is your jam, on the other hand, check out the [AU that inspired it!](http://bluandorange.tumblr.com/tagged/too-many-cooks/chrono)
> 
> Note-  
> Pairing is McHanzo all the way down. No incest here. There's mention of one-sided McReyes in the 'Blackwatch McCree has a big damn crush on his boss that probably isn't requited' way.

There is a mist rising outside the windows of the castle, in defiance of the golden sun. Hanzo welcomes it. He did not sleep last night; his hangover is profound, a throbbing wall of pain that sets all other things at a distance.

His aunt praised him this morning, as quick and stinging as her slap last night. She approves of the man they have made of him—in western styles, his cut hair speaks of modernity and not disgrace. She approves of the blankness behind his eyes, too. She thinks he is defeated. They all think he is defeated.

They are right.

In all his years he has been taught to see his flaws and correct them. He thought he knew himself mercilessly.

He never knew himself to be _weak._ Cringing, drunk and weeping. Brought to heel by those who brought him to heel before. They groomed him like a dog. They turned him on his brother’s throat.

His eyes are dry and stinging now; no tears left for Genji.

He is weak.

And now that he knows this of himself, what will he do? A crossroads lies before him; one path leads to duty, one to punishment, one to the last honour he could salvage.

What is he to do now?

He scrubs his eyes; the mist outside the windows is so thick that he can’t see the trees in the courtyard. The sun must be nearly at its peak; the world glows almost white with directionless light. The noises of the castle are stifled, as if the mist silenced them. He cannot hear the elders talking in the next room, the maids sweeping, the guards on their rounds.

Then he hears a single set of running feet, the bright laughter of a young man, and he moves without thinking. He throws open the sliding doors of the balcony, throws himself to the rail, looks down and sees only a flash of green and black in the fog.

“Wait!” He leaps from the balcony, rides hard down the wall with his western business shoes sliding against the smooth side, lands on his knees. What would his aunt say now, seeing him pelting out of windows like a boy? But he must know who the stranger is, this phantom in the fog.

The running feet stop.

“Hanzo?”

Grief has broken him. Weak.  But he feels like he has been in this place before.  He is not in the courtyard anymore; the shadow of the castle wall beside him is gone, the fog curls unhindered away.

He has—he has been in this nowhere place before. More than once. The first time he was following… he was following…

“G-genji?” his voice barely sounds like his own.

“Hanzo?” A huff of exasperation. “Where the hell are—”

A figure in black and green emerges from the fog. Genji. Genji, Genji, it throbs in time with his heart and the pain in his head.

“Holy SHIT!”

The phantom’s eyes light with glee. He had expected an angry ghost, but Genji’s face is nothing but mischief and delight.

“What happened to your _hair?_ ”

Genji throws his arms out, beckoning him closer, and Hanzo closes the distance in a desperate burst, throwing his arms around his brother’s image. Genji is warm and real under his arms, too young and too vibrant but this is no drunken vision, this is no hallucination, Genji alive, Genji, Genji-

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“What, what—what happened? Is it the hair thing? Because I think I like it.” Genji laughs nervously, and ruffles his hair. “Wow. Wow, you really did it, you really took it all off—“

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

“Brother, please, please stop, you’re scaring me? What’s wrong? You can tell me—”

Genji’s stiffens suddenly, body tensed to fight.  Hanzo recoils, but Genji is looking past him.

“Murderer!”  

Hanzo moves without thinking, thrusting his brother behind him, falling into a fighting stance as if he could parry the sword the assassin is drawing with flesh and bone. Their assailant is more machine than man, but his synthetic voice drips with malice.

His eyes glow red above the metal mask that hides his mouth, and Hanzo meets them helplessly.

A blur of green and silver, and graceful figure is suddenly between the brothers and the cyborg. Its own sword is drawn, and it deflects the cyborg’s swing expertly.

“Get out of my _way_ ,” the cyborg roars, taking another wild swing. “You have no right!”

“I have every right,” the omnic says, its voice like a calm echo of its opponent. “You selfish child, you understand _nothing_ \--”

“He took everything from me!”

“He has nothing!” The omnic parries an attack, stepping past a sword-thrust and smacking the hilt of its sword into the cyborg’s head, boxing his ears like a matron with a disobedient boy.

“He was my brother!”

“He _is_ your brother.” The omnic’s fighting style is as calm and measured as its voice as it parries and steps, parries and steps, offers no fatal attack.  

“He discarded me like garbage!”

“So you will do the same to him?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“And yet how can you fight with no harmony in you?”

“I need no harmony—”  the cyborg lunges at the omnic, who twists gracefully away, hooking its leg around the cyborg’s with the ring of metal on metal. The cyborg falls, rolling across the unseeable cobblestones.

“You lack balance,” the omnic gloats, pursuing.

“Who are you?” another voice intruding on the chaos, this time behind Hanzo. “Genji, get away from that man.”

Hanzo half turns, sees another impossible specter—the regal, sneering face of a younger self, hair falling below his shoulders. He is not sure how much more of this he can cope with.

His phantom-self pauses by phantom-Genji, brows beetling as he sees the edge of the tattoo that protrudes from Hanzo’s sleeve.

“Who—are you?” the young man asks, with a shade more wary deference.

“He’s a dead man, son.”

No, not another participant in this nightmare charade.  Hanzo lets his defensive stance droop. Better to see an end to this. Or has he died? Is this hell? A constant hangover, red-eyed demons to assail him, the reminders of his past and his failures shadows behind him?

And a westerner pointing a gun. That… the symbology fails him. That he is all in black symbolizes death in the west, but… a cowboy hat?

“Really, cowboy?” the omnic shouts in English. “Really?” 

“McCree! Don’t let him get away!” the cyborg demands.

The westerner’s uneven teeth show themselves; he snarls like a feral animal. “Don’ worry, Genji, I’ll take the shot—”

“Like hell you will.” A bloom of blood red in the fog behind the gunman, and the gunman’s own ghost emerges, wrapping an arm around the gunman’s throat.  The gunman twists his body and throws him, more gracefully than Hanzo would have thought possible; his red twin rolls with the throw and knocks his feet out.

“You ain’t learned all of Reyes’ tricks yet,” the red-twin drawls.

“McCree,” the omnic says, a little strain in its synthetic voice. The cyborg has regrouped, is pressing it back with murderous fury. “Why is it so crowded?”

“Sorry, pal, I didn’t bring’m here,” answers the westerner—the red twin. He is older than his black counterpart, but their faces are the same. “Guess we needed one of each of’m, and you know… there’s gotta be balance.”

“That means Hanzo is here!” The omnic’s voice brightens.  “Hanzo, get the children and Phoenix Wright over there to safety, would you? Until I can talk sense into—ow, you little shit, that _hurt._ ”

“Save your breath, brother. You are only chiding yourself,” Hanzo’s own voice sighs, but it is not _him speaking_. Gods, he is so very hungover and so frightened for the boys behind him.

“Myself is a brat,” the omnic observes.

“Agreed.”

“Wha-?” The cyborg falters, staring between the omnic and the huddled boys behind Hanzo.

There is a hand on his shoulder.

“No. No, I can bear no more of this,” he begs this unseen thing.

“Come away where it is quieter,” his own voice soothes. There is something in it that is foreign to him, something that alarms him and makes his dry eyes burn with the tears he cannot shed. “I know you’re still hungover. You need to rest.”

“You must protect the boys.”

“They will be safe.  As will you. Don’t make me carry you, Shimada Hanzo.”

The hand on his shoulder turns him, not too roughly. His past-self clutches phantom-Genji’s hand, eyes shooting between Hanzo and—a man who looks so much like his mother that it takes his breath away.

It is recognizably himself, but this phantom is his future. He is calm; he wears his hair up, showing the shaved sides of his scalp, and he has piercings, ears, the bridge of his nose. His eyes are wary, and wise, and gentle. 

The phantom nods at him, cups the two boys by their shoulders, and steers them away.

He follows numbly to keep from losing them, but the fog clears around them, leaves them a little space. He can see the cobblestones under his feet now. He can see that some of the stones are missing, gaps in the pattern, and then there are more gaps than there are stones. There is gritty dust between them, and then only gravel  and dry, dry earth.

There is a tree, scraggly and withered; a boy sits under it. He wears the same foolish hat as the two gunmen; has the same burnished skin. He might be the age of Hanzo’s past-self. He eyes them cautiously.

“Wouldn’t go too much further, partner,” he addresses the future-self. “Unless you want a real quick sight-seeing tour of the gorge.”

“This is far enough,” the future-self says passively. “You boys don’t go near the cliff. Nothing here can truly harm you, but it is not a pleasant experience. Believe me.”

Hanzo’s face is cold and sticky with sweat. He staggers toward that edge and vomits over it, into misty nothing.

His future-self kneels next to him, a kind hand on his shoulder. He slaps it away.

“Do not touch me, specter.”

“One day you will come to this same cliff,” the future-self says. “In this same mist.  Not today, but not far away. On that day, you will step off. And that is how I know that the fall cannot kill us, but that it is very, very unpleasant.”

“You speak as if we are one and the same.”

“We are. The same vessel filled more or less with time.”

“Bullshit,” he says crudely.

The future-self huffs a little laugh. “If you like.”

“I could never be _you._ Look at you. Decorated. Pleased with yourself.”

“As we always wanted to be, but never dared.”

“You smile. You wear the clothes of a young man, but you are old. Kinslayer. Murderer. How dare you smile? How dare you?”  He wants to punch that calm face, but he can barely stay upright. “I hate you.”

“I know. Please come back away from the cliff.”

“I hate you,” he whispers.

“I know.”

He is tugged back, overbalancing and falling against a strong torso. However older, his future self is still well conditioned.

“I don’t hate you,” his future self muses, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. “I had not realized. I no longer hate you.”

“I deserve hatred.” He crawls out of the other man’s grip, sitting heavily on the dirt.

“No-one does, Hanzo.”

“I killed him,” Hanzo moans. “My brother. My sparrow.”

“Yes,” the future-self agrees. “I still grieve for it. I still regret it. But men to whom I owe much asked me to give up my hatred. In the end… I could not refuse them.”

“Who was that assassin? Who sent him? Will he come for me in the world of the living, when this nightmare is over?”  

“That… is our brother, Hanzo. What he will become. He is alive even now.”

No. Impossible.  Ignore that. “The westerners…?”

“They are Genji’s friend. Their name is Jesse.”

They are speaking quietly enough not to be overheard by the youths, but the scowling boy recognizes the name.

“Y’all weirdos better not be talking about me.”

“We are not,” the future-self says, rolling his eyes. “Take the cards out of your pocket. The boys next to you play poker, but not as well as you, you might as well take what you can while you can.”

Hanzo blinks and looks down at his hands.

“I played that game.”

“Yes.”

“I lost father’s ring. But that was a dream.”

“It was not. But things don’t stay in this place. You cannot change what was, or what will be. The ring will be back in that proud young man’s possession when he wakes.”

“Then why are we here?” Hanzo’s eyes flick to Genji, his brother with his green hair, young and curious and gossiping, they are- he remembers gossiping about what these strange visions meant.  If only he could tell his past-self. If only he could stop it—

“A decision lies before at least one of us. And we cannot make it alone. I don’t know which of us it is; it may be all of us. It could be one of those boys. It could be Jesse as I know him, Jesse as he was in Blackwatch, Genji as I know him, Genji as he was in blackwatch.  But one of us must be here and hear the council of past or future.” His future-self’s face softens. “Jesse calls it ‘the breath at the crossroads.’ The time to make a decision. It is he who brings us here—he belongs to the crossroads in many ways.”

“You speak as if fond of this, this cowboy. This killer. He is dangerous and dirty.”

“You will be fond if that cowboy. It will sneak up on you,” the future-self chuckles.  “He is much more than he seems. Much more than we deserve.”

“Impossible.”

“So many things are.”

“Do you have a decision ahead of you?”

“I do. It isn’t such a serious one that I would need to be here. You… you, though.” The future self taps his knee. “This is one of many visits. Not your first, but one of your first. You will forget them each time. All we bring out with us is … strength or weakness, love or hate. The pressure of a single fingertip that unsettles the scales of the world. There is much to decide in the coming days.”

“Will it always be like this? Always … madness and fighting?”

“No. Sometimes it will only be him—Jesse--- and us. Only as we are in the present, whenever the present is. He will … not always be pleased,” his future-self muses, smiling over a private joke. “But our destinies are bound and he is always our guide.”

“Will I never see Genji again?”

“No, you will. Many times. There will be others, too. A girl, this small.” He lifts his hands to where waist-height would be if they were standing.  “She will not know you and you will not know her, but Jesse would not bring her if she did not need to be here—or you for her. Sometimes we are needed to help others decide.  Brush up on your Korean. There is a ghost who also turned on his family. Be respectful. There is a spider. Be kind. There is an angel. Don’t let her give you too much grief.”

“Foolish.”

“It is madness,” the future self agrees. “You will… not get used to it. It will get easier. I recommend that you simply accept things as they come. Nod and move forward, don’t try to understand.”

“I… was here the night before I— not, not two nights ago.”

“Yes. The decisions we make here are not always the best ones.”  The future self’s eyes dip. “This place is a blessing and a curse, Hanzo. For while it gives me a moment to breathe, it strips all excuse. Whatever decision you come to, you cannot pretend that it belongs to anyone else.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. He was here. The memory is shrouded in this damn mist but he was here, he was here with that angry black-cloaked cowboy screaming at him, threatening, cajoling, begging. He was here and he was warned and he chose.

Wetness slides down his cheek and he sobs, weak as an infant, unable to resist as the future self draws him up into an embrace.

“Do not comfort me!”

“I do not hate you.”

“I hate you!”

“I know.  I know.” A strong hand rubs circles in his back. “You will see your enemy in every mirror in the world but one. And you will not find that one for a long time.”

“Don’t speak to me in riddles, you sound like father. Have you forgiven him, too?”

“Not… quite.  But I have throttled the gnawing worm. It wounded me without purpose, and so I muzzled it. You will. One day, you will stop punishing yourself.”

“Fool. I will never, never be a fool like you.”

“Shhh, you’re going to throw up again if you try to shout at me.” 

“I… _hate_ you.”  He sags into his own arms. 

“I know.”

After a long while, his future-self is called away; two figures, black and green, silver and green, replace him. The omnic braces up one side of him; his brother tucks against the other. It is clear they have been talking for some time. 

“I’ll convince you to run away with me,” says his brother desperately. “It won’t be like this.” 

The omnic shakes its head ruefully. “I wish you would. Perhaps you will. I did not, but perhaps you are from a different universe. Maybe it will be different..” 

“The one with the hair, he says you are my brother,” Hanzo says, squinting up at the gleaming chrome faceplate. “You cannot be.” 

“Mmm I’ve heard that before.” 

“You cannot forgive me.” 

“Hanzo, Hanzo… when did I ever listen to ‘you can’t?’” the omnic teases, and it is so -- it is so much of Genji.  “I forgave you long ago.”

“I forgive you,” says Genji, flesh and blood and fragile youth beside him. 

“No.” The boy does not know how it ends. Whatever he is told cannot prepare him.

“It will not be easy, if it makes you feel better,” the omnic offers. Genji. Offers. Genji in silver.  “You will have to work for it. You will suffer on your path to redemption.” 

“ _Good._ ” 

“I was afraid you were going to say that, brother.” A synthesized sigh.  “Also, I regret to tell you this, but among all of us, you are definitely ‘the one with the hair’ right now.” 

It really is Genji somewhere inside that metal, isn’t it. 

He starts to cry again.  Weak. Weak and insane. He wraps his arms around his younger brother, clinging tight. Warm metal arms surround them both. 

He must-- he must do something. If this is his time to be weak, then when he returns to reality he must be strong. 

He must decide what he is going to do about the clan. He must decide who he is, and who he will be. He-- realizes that a path is closed to him. He cannot fall on his sword as he has imagined in the darker hours. He must go forward, no matter what. 

Will he remember?  

If only he could remember. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“How could you forgive that sorry sumbitch?!” 

Jesse rolls his eyes. “You’d do better askin’ Genji about that. He forgave him a long time before my stubborn ass did.” 

“Yeah, maybe I will.” 

“Not right now, though. He’s with his brother. Poor bastard’s had a bad one.” 

“I’ll shed a single tear for him,” sneers the man in Blackwatch. 

“Yeah, you will. Someday. When you realize just how much those two got fucked up by their family.” 

“Over my dead body.” 

Jesse chuckles humorlessly.  

“Yeah, I bet that’s what that kid under the tree’d say, if you asked him ‘bout leaving Deadlock.” 

“That ain’t the same!” 

“No, but it ain’t nothing.”  He wishes for a cigarillo. The illusion of them just doesn’t ever cut it. He could use that soothing nicotine kick right now.  

“I’d never turn on my family.” 

“You ask that kid who his family is, what do you think he’d say?” 

“Well, I know better than him,” his younger self spits.  

These conversations are always hard. In Blackwatch he’d hated being dragged along to the crossroads. Jesse could do without him here too, but… he’s needful. You can’t come to the crossroads without a guide to anchor you in time, so if that poor Hanzo looking like a tragedy in his gorgeous suit is going be here, so is this surly cowboy. 

Poor fucked up guy. Wants to be hated, so here’s Genji to hate him.. Misses his brother, so here’s Genji to look up to him. Wants to be forgiven, somewhere deep down, so here’s Genji with a balanced soul and a little more wisdom. 

...and Jesse’s Hanzo, well. Maybe he needed to be here for his own reasons. 

There was this look in his man’s eyes when he finally settled down his younger self and came to check on him. Hanzo was holding his younger self all gentle, and Jesse’s heart had swelled up. It’d almost paralyzed him. 

He’d never thought he’d see the day when Hanzo could treat himself as kind as he deserved. It’s not the end of all his struggling with his past, but it’s-- it’s a hell of a lot. 

“We might not be from the same time,” his younger self breaks into his thoughts.  “Maybe I’ll have the guts to put that man down like he deserves. Maybe I’ll show a little loyalty” 

“Don’t talk to me about guts. Or loyalty.” 

“What do you know about it?” 

Jesse looks at the younger man with something a little like pity. He remembers hating that look turned on him, but it’s all he’s got for the guy. Thinks he’s got it all figured out. Thinks he can see the whole picture.

“I know there’s a man who saved your life.” 

The Blackwatch agent stiffens.  “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” 

“And you don’t have it straight in your head what he is to you, if he’s your brother, your father, or you just want to call him _daddy_.” 

“Fuck you!” 

“You know one thing certain, though. You’d follow him into hell.” 

“Yeah, I would!” 

“Uh-huh, and one of these days he’s gonna stand there with a door open, and you’re going to smell brimstone coming out, and you’re going to look around and not know how you got there. That day… you and me are gonna meet again, right here. Then we can talk about loyalty. And family.” 

“Not gonna happen,” his younger self says, chin out, arms crossed. 

Well, maybe it won’t. Maybe time will spin out differently. 

Jesse suspects it won’t, though. 

The crossroads change, echo the places he’s been and will be. When he has to decide to leave Blackwatch, it’ll be a courtyard in Japan, cherry blossoms falling through the mist. There’ll be nowhere to escape the reminder that once ‘loyalty’ was such an easy concept. He’ll have all his sneering shoved in his face. 

He’ll have to decide that day. And he might not decide right. But it’ll be all his own choice. 

  
  


 

 

* * *

 

 

Hanzo wakes with Jesse stirring beside him. He is, if possible, more exhausted than when he collapsed next to his lover. His dreams were restless and chaotic; the details slip away from him but he remembers arguments in mist, nonsense words and impossible faces. 

He really must curb his drinking better.  He is too old for this. 

“We are too old for this,” he says out loud, and his voice is slurry around his fat tongue. 

Jesse groans; it seems the sentiment is shared. 

“Fuck me, when’m I gonna learn not to drink when Reinhardt bartends?” 

“Or at least to stop when the Goldschlager makes an appearance.” 

“Don’ ev’n say the name,” Jesse pleads, and snuggles down to bury his face in Hanzo’s chest. It is, he says, his place of safety. It gives him some comfort in trying times

“Your beard is scratchy,” Hanzo complains, but doesn’t bother pushing him away. Too much effort. 

“Mmmmm.” 

It is not yet dawn. They have time to rest together, miserable company in their hangovers. Jesse’s weight is a soothing counter-irritant to his own throbbing head. The sensation seems oddly familiar, an echo of another night of poor life choices. He really didn’t think he had drunk so much. 

Jesse’s breath is hot and slow between his pectorals, and Hanzo thinks he must be asleep again until he draws his head back. 

“Something was eatin’ you up last night, baby. I forgot. I was gonna ask you about it.” 

“It is nothing.” 

“Honeeey,” Jesse cajoles.  

“It was a small thing. It seemed much larger at the time. I will tell you later, when we are not hungover.” 

It seemed like such a daunting prospect. So much fear, so many unknowns.  Now it is absolutely trivial. He will ask Jesse to join him; to stand in a ceremony that cannot be legal, to grant him the right to a name he cannot use, to take Hanzo’s equally freighted name in exchange. He will make vows to Jesse that he does not need to make. 

If Jesse says yes, he will ask his brother to stand beside him. He will see his brother at his wedding. The thought fills him with so much joy he can barely understand it.  

If Jesse says no-- for the many reasons that have kept Hanzo silent since he first realized he wanted to marry the man-- then there will be sorrow, but it will not be the end of him. Nor the end of them. They are outlaws; they will knot themselves together in strange new ways. They already have. 

Perhaps he does not deserve it, but it will serve nothing to deny himself. He will give himself this thing he desires. He will risk, and win, or lose, and he will live and go on living. It is simple, put like that. 

It’s certainly not the hardest decision he’s ever made in his life.  He smiles-- it hurts-- and closes his eyes, seeking sleep again. 

Outside, the sea breeze catches the mist, and blows it away. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I desperately wanted to call this fic My Brother, My Brother, My Brother and Me and Me and Me, but it just didn't fit the tone I was shooting for here.


End file.
